


Repayment

by startwithsparks



Series: MMOM 2013 [13]
Category: The Borgias
Genre: Asphyxiation, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Necrophilia, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Slaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they've secured Milan for the French king, Cesare gives Micheletto some time to dwell over their actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repayment

"What are we going to do with them?" Micheletto asked, looming over the corpse of Ludovico Sforza.

As he often was, he found himself impressed at his master's skill, such precise aim, such a beautiful shot. He tugged off his glove and crouched down next to the bloated body, his fingers trailing over still-warm flesh. He could feel Cesare's gaze on him from behind, waiting for him to finish his inspection before speaking. He ignored the prickle on the back of his neck and instead pressed one of his fingers into the warm hole in the man's head. He could feel the shards of bone grinding against his finger, the dull squish of brain inside.

"Did you have something in mind?" Cesare finally asked, disrupting his curiosity.

Micheletto twisted and looked back over his shoulder at Cesare's grin. He wiped his hand off and slowly pushed himself to his feet, dusting the dirt off his pants. "We can't leave them here for carrion," he said. "By the time someone finds them, they'll be unrecognizable. The French king needs to know his claim is secure, and there will be those who demand proof. We should deliver them to someone who can identify them, witnesses, so there can be no question that they are truly dead."

He chuckled, striding over to his man and clasping a hand against the curve of his neck. "How do you propose we do that?"

Micheletto looked around, they didn't even have as many horses as they had men and while it might be easy enough to carry the young Benito back, his mother's uncle was an enormous man. But while Benito's horse had run the moment he was startled to the ground, the fat man's mount lingered obediently near its master.

He turned back towards Cesare, "Tie the fat one to the back of his horse, let one of your men ride in front of him, I'll take the boy."

Cesare had a hard time biting back the smirk that answered, but he squeezed the back of Micheletto's neck and nodded. "Good man," he said. "I know why I keep you around."

He knew as well. The Borgia family was cunning, brutal, and often swift to action. It had been an easy decision for him to kill the Sforza hold in Milan instead of handing them over alive the way his father had instructed. But Micheletto considered the much larger picture, larger still than France and Milan. He wasn't as educated in the tactics of war as his master was, but he knew people, and he knew how stubbornly they held onto their most pointless desires. Milan would resist unless they had proof, and they would rebel if that proof was delivered to them too viciously. There was a time and place for cruelty, every assassin knew that as well as he knew the weight of his blades against his body, but there was also a time and place for simple diligence.

Cesare motioned for a few of his men, drawing Ludovico's horse near and rifling through his bags for something that might be used to secure him there. It took three men to heft Sforza onto the back of his horse, and two to tie him there while Cesare softly soothed the horse as they worked. Micheletto watched for a moment before he turned and made his way back to the boy. He still lay in a heap on his side, curled around the arrow that pierced his chest. Micheletto knelt next to him and pushed him onto his back, his head lulling to the side as his body slumped back. The blood on his face was caked with dirt, leaving him looking no better than some poor urchin, instead of the noble boy he was. But Micheletto gently pushed the hair out of his face and wiped the blood from his mouth, drawing his hand down to the arrow in his chest. He grabbed the shaft, twisted, and yanked, the bolt coming free with a wet squish of blood and tissue. He broke the metal tip and pressed it into a pouch on his hip, shifting to get both his feet under him again.

His own horse was still on the ridge, but Benito weighed next to nothing as he hauled him into his arms and started his way back. By the time he'd returned to where he and Cesare tied up their own mounts, his master had caught up with him, falling in stride next to him. He said nothing because nothing needed to be said, as he helped Micheletto haul the boy's body onto Micheletto's horse. Instead of throwing his dead weight behind the saddle as they'd done with Ludovico, they put him astride in front, Cesare holding him in place until Micheletto could climb up behind him.

He wrapped one arm around the boy's middle and took the reigns with his other hand. "It's a shame," he said as Cesare swung himself onto his own horse. "That he had to die in such a way."

Cesare turned his horse and trotted towards him, "Did you have some affection for the young Sforza?"

"I wanted to kill him," he answered.

"And so you have."

"Yes, but I wanted to be much closer when I did it."

Cesare laughed, riding alongside Micheletto for a few more feet before he tightened the reigns and prepared his horse for a gallop. "My apologies," he said with a knowing smirk, watching the way Micheletto's hand curled in the boy's bloody shirt. "I never meant to deprive you of your pleasure, Micheletto. I promise you that I'll make it up to you."

"My lord," he nodded.

Cesare clicked his heels, spurring his horse into a gallop and started making his way along the ridge towards where his men were already riding back, leaving Micheletto lingering behind.

*

They handed the bodies off to the French armies before making their way back to Rome, and though Micheletto was reticent to trust them with the important task at hand, there were those loyal to the Borgia family with them, Italians, fellow bastard sons who wanted nothing more than to hear their names on the tongues of those delivered from Sforza rule. So he followed Cesare as obediently as ever, pleased to return to the city regardless of his hesitance.

He'd mentioned nothing to Cesare about what he'd left in Rome; or what he thought he'd left there, it still remained to be seen whether or not he would find anything waiting for him when he returned. But he tried not to think about it. There were other obligations, even when they returned to Rome. He was Cesare's man foremost, and only then did he allow himself to be his own. It had always been like that, and it always would. But Cesare seemed in surprisingly high spirits considering he was about to tell his father that he had betrayed another order. Cesare had grown a thick skin to Rodrigo's anger, though it was hard not to. He was never the favored son because he didn't require the attention that his brother did... and that was a feeling that Micheletto understood all too well. He also understood how, after a time, a father's criticisms simply stopped having weight the way they once did. And Cesare would do what Cesare was wont to do.

But there was something between them, unsaid, a ghost of a smile that played upon his master's lips whenever he turned to say something or to listen as Micheletto said something. He was plotting again, though there was rarely a moment when something wasn't going on in his brilliant, dangerous mind. Micheletto knew not to ask questions of him, just as he demanded that others not ask questions as well. He would find out in time if it was any concern of his. And Cesare didn't keep but the most personal matters from him. If it had something to do with him - and he was certain from the smile on the other man's face that it did - it was only a matter of time.

They didn't return to the Vatican or even to the family home once they arrived back in the city. Instead, Cesare led him through the city in the other direction, down winding alleys that they hadn't traveled down since Juan's tragic death. These were haunted places, however familiar, and Micheletto felt more than a little wary riding through them. The streets grew steadily more narrow until they were riding one behind the other, ducking lines of washing that hung from windows, as women and men alike leaned out open windows and called to them below. It wasn't until the street abruptly stopped in a dead end that Cesare dismounted, swinging down effortlessly from his horse and motioning for Micheletto to do the same.

"Wait here," he said, entrusting the reigns to him as he ducked through a fabric-covered archway into a dirty, dark room.

He did as he was instructed, waiting with the horses as Cesare saw to his business. He wasn't the type to visit whorehouses for pleasure, it was only if some other purpose forced his hand to seek information or an acquaintance there. Micheletto could think of no other reason for them to be in that alley, at least until Cesare stuck his head back out of the doorway with a smirk, and beckoned Micheletto inside with a careful quirk of two fingers. He handed his master the reigns to their horses, trading him places as he stepped inside.

An older woman with dark olive skin and hair in a thick black braid waited for him within. She nodded gently at him and led him back through the maze of curtained-off rooms, barely-dressed women and men waiting beyond the sheer veils, further back into the building until the veils were replaced with rough walls and thick doors. She stopped in front of one, produced a key from her pocket, and handed it to him. They didn't exchange a word, not even as she swept away from him and back towards the brothel proper. Micheletto slipped the key into the door's lock, giving it a firm twist, and stepped inside.

The room was cast in the warm glow of a half-dozen lamps, and inside a young man of no more than twenty sat on narrow, elaborate bed. He had a Greek look about him, though spending his days in this room had paled his skin and caused his eyes to darken. But his dark hair still shone, hanging down to his shoulders in lank waves. His resemblance to Benito Sforza was remarkable. The other boy had more refinement to his face, a sharper profile, and lighter eyes, but from a distance, it would be easy to mistake one for the other. Micheletto bit back a faint smirk and closed the door behind him. He understood the gift, though he wasn't sure he was meant to take as many liberties with someone else's property as he would with a free man.

He settled down on the bed next to the boy, watching as he inspected Micheletto with a curious stare. "How old are you, boy?"

"Fifteen," he answered.

Micheletto snorted softly, "The truth now."

He chewed on the inside of his lip and, after a moment, sighed. "Almost nineteen, my lord."

"You speak the language well, how long have you been here?"

"My mother brought me here."

Micheletto nodded, reaching up to start unbuckling his coat. The boy took his cue, unlacing the short tunic that he wore over tight pants. His skin was marked with old scars and yellowing bruises, scrapes littering delicate skin. It only made Micheletto desire him more. But he didn't undress completely, he only liberated himself from the restrictive confines of his coat, he didn't need any more than that, not for what he wanted to do. He waited silently until the boy had done away with his pants, his clothes in a heap on the floor next to the bed.

"Are you going to kill me?" the boy asked, slowly lowering himself back onto his elbows.

Micheletto's glanced sideways at him as he tugged up the sleeves of his shirt, "Why do you ask that?"

"I know who your master is," he said simply, "he bought me for you."

He stared at the boy for a long moment, watching as he began to squirm under the scrutiny. Only when he broke away and turned his focus to the bed between them did Micheletto answer his question, "Not if you please me and do as you're told."

He nodded, "What would you have me do?"

That was not as easy a question to answer because Micheletto _did_ want to kill him, but he would not act so recklessly. He wouldn't bring down any more destructive rumors on his master's head. He had enough to worry about without it becoming known that his man had killed a slave whore bought with Borgia coin. So he wet his lips and looked over the lithe, tan body laid out before him, then reached out a hand.

"Come here," he said, "and turn around."

The boy reached back for Micheletto, his thin fingers curled delicately around the man's hand. Micheletto pulled him back to his knees, one hand falling lightly on his hip to steady him as he turned and put his back against Micheletto's chest. He dragged the hand up from his hip and slung it tight around the boy's middle, the other coming up into his hair, drawing his head to the side. He pulled the boy into his lap, hands roaming over his cool skin, his beard scratching the delicate flesh of his neck. He arched against Micheletto, trying to fit himself against the man's chest.

"Don't," he murmured. "Relax, don't move. Don't even breathe if you can help it." He felt the boy stir slightly but that was the only response he gave before his head lulled back against Micheletto's shoulder and he went loose in his arms. He stroked a hand through the boy's hair, "Good," he murmured, "just like that."

He followed direction well, and it wasn't the fear of death that had him answering every order with absolute obedience - it was training. Micheletto didn't want to think about where the boy had come from or how he ended up here, not when there was pale skin under his fingertips and the boy's dead weight against his chest. He dragged one hand down the boy's hairless stomach, fingers slipping between his legs. It was impressive that the boy could bite back his moan, and Micheletto could ignore the slight hitch of his breath in order to feel him slowly harden against his palm. He moved slow enough to lull the boy into a soft, almost sleepy daze, his own eyes falling closed as he focused on the weight against him and the still, coldness of the room around them.

It wasn't long before he felt himself pressing against supple flesh as well, and though he arched his hips to relieve some of the pressure, he wasn't ready to take it there yet. He wanted a while longer to play, to savor this gift from his master. The boy's skin was uncommonly soft, and Micheletto could almost imagine that his were the first, the only, hands to grace it. If only he could keep it that way... Of course, fate had never been that kind to him, but when he was lost in the moment he could allow himself to think about things that he would never allow otherwise.

His hand slipped down from the boy's hair, finding its way around his thin neck. Micheletto turned his head, burying his face against the soft curve of his neck, inhaling the scent of him while his fingers flexed and gripped. His eyes drifted closed, teeth scraping gently against his skin as his grip slowly tightened. He could feel the boy's pulse against his fingers, the anxious tension that drew taut in his thighs. But the boy didn't struggle under him; whether it was resignation or trust, Micheletto couldn't say, but the feeling of him so willing to give himself over to an assassin's grip made a rush surge through him at last. His breath shuddered in the boy's ear, lips a whisper against the ridge of his earlobe, and he gave one more indulgent squeeze - enough to feel the life fighting to surge past his grip - before loosening his hold entirely. He trailed his fingers back down then, hefting the boy a little tighter against his chest until he'd sought out every inch of skin there was to find, claiming it with the tips of his fingers and edges of his nails. Only then did draw his hand up again, over hard flesh and the shallow ridge of hip bones, to grip the boy at his waist.

Micheletto shoved him forward onto his stomach, then rolled him onto his back, the boy making a good show of being limp as he could be. It wasn't easy, he knew, but he could almost believe the act with this one. He finally unlaced his own pants, making quick work of the fabric beneath as well, and drew himself from inside. The boy's gaze stayed focused on the ceiling, but Micheletto could see his muscles flinch in anticipation. As he leaned down over the boy's body, he stroked a hand softly against the inside of his thigh, nudging his legs apart. He didn't press in, though - some part of him knew that would ruin the fantasy - instead he dipped down and took the boy's cock into his mouth, slowly sucking him while he reached back to take care of himself.

It was easier for him to be still this way, and easier for Micheletto to ignore when his chest rose with a sharp breath or when he had to bite his lip to hold back a whine. His focus was on the flesh between his lips, his nose pressing into sparse dark hair, and his own hand working him ever closer to the edge. He didn't care if the boy got off, it wouldn't affect him one way or another, but it had been entirely too long since he'd been in this position, and could still feel as though he had the upper hand in it. There was an implicit air of command here that he didn't have as often as he'd like, but the boy's effortless submission made it possible.

Micheletto spent himself, without ceremony or much more than a grunt of warning, on the sheets between their bodies, though his hand and mouth alike both kept working, wringing the last trace of desire from himself and seeing to it that the boy was well paid in more than just coin as well. He had no qualms about swallowing as he dragged himself away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking down at the spoiled heap of flesh in front of him. The boy's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath now, his cheeks flushed and warm instead of pale and cold as they had been when he started; even the hair at his brow was faintly slicked with perspiration from his efforts. But Micheletto only paid him the barest of attention as he stood and started to lace himself up.

It was a moment more before the boy moved as well, slowly rolling onto his side and reaching for his tunic off the floor. He said nothing as he dressed, though his gaze lingered - careful and curious - on Micheletto all the while. There seemed to be a note of suspicion in his gaze, and rightfully so, but the urge to destroy him had been momentarily abated by physical satisfaction, and Micheletto was content to let him keep breathing for a while longer.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked, reaching for his coat.

He fussed with the laces of his tunic, "Ilias," he murmured, "but if it pleases you, you could call me Ilie."

"Ilie, then..." Micheletto repeated. He tucked his shirt back in and laced up his coat, looking no more disheveled than he did when he first came in. "You'll stay here," he said, "and if anyone makes trouble for you, your mistress knows how to find us. But you speak of this to no one, do you understand?" The boy nodded and neatly folded his legs under him. "Good," Micheletto said with a curt nod of his own. "I _will_ return."

He canted his head gently, "I look forward to it, my lord."

"Micheletto," he corrected, though for the first time he found he wished he had a title to live up to as well. It didn't matter, what was he to a whore anyhow?

*

He left the boy swiftly, making his way back through the labyrinth of rooms and once again into the bright day. Cesare leaned against the wall opposite the door, carving off bits of an apple with his dagger. He gave Micheletto a scrutinizing look, a slipped a sliver of white flesh into his mouth.

"Do I owe the mistress recompense?" he asked, a smirk sliding into place.

Micheletto shook his head and reached for his horse's reigns. "No," he answered, "not this time."

Cesare sheathed his dagger and tossed the rest of the apple to Micheletto, swinging himself gracefully back onto his mount. "This time," he chuckled. "He's bought and paid for, Micheletto - if you want him, go back in and take him."


End file.
